


Intertwined

by i_smell_a_fandom



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Benedict Cumberbathc, Death, Fanfic, Greg Lestrade - Freeform, Hurt No Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Molly Hooper - Freeform, Moriarty - Freeform, Mycroft Holmes - Freeform, Pain, Plot, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock AU, Sherlolly - Freeform, Wedding, good luck, have fun, john x sherlock - Freeform, martin freeman - Freeform, mystrade, oof, twist - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2019-01-01 02:39:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12146844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_smell_a_fandom/pseuds/i_smell_a_fandom
Summary: This is the universe, John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John.





	Intertwined

Sherlock had in fact, asked me to marry him while we were having tea. I had not been in a relationship for quite some time and Sherlock was as single as ever. I was on my laptop, updating the blog when Sherlock popped the question.  
You see, this would have been perfectly normal if we had been dating for some time, which we haven't. As far as I was aware, my feelings for the man were unrequited. Sherlock had never come out to me officially, but never once in all 7 years of knowing him had he dated a woman (besides Janine, but no affection was true.) so I assumed that he was gay, or some variation of.  
I chocked a little in my tea, burning my mouth, before turning to my curly haired friend.  
“Sherlock, you can't just ask me to marry you.”  
“Why not John? You and I have known each other for a deal of time, I've had strong feelings for you since we met, as have you. Only recently I have realised what we could be.” I shook my head a little, smiling.  
“You can't just propose. Do you have a ring?” With a flick of an eye brow, he produced a ring from the breast pocket of his blazer and flicked it over to me. I caught it and admired the silver band. “Fine,” I sighed, picking up my tea “but you have to date the person first. You have to see if you want to be with them.” And with that, Sherlock changed the question to ‘I’d like it very much if you would be my boyfriend, John.’ To which I said yes. I then went back to my tea and blogging, while Sherlock stood up to get a biscuit.  
For the next 6 months, Sherlock would pop the question at least twice a week. In truth, it wasn't much different to us being friends; except he would get sudden urges of affection. Sherlock would wrap his gangly arms round me (usually when I was cooking or washing up) and rest his head on my shoulder. There wasn't a better feeling in the world, even though the position was probably uncomfortable for Sherlock.  
I finally said yes on the 20th of April 2017, after we had dated for 6 months. Sherlock had made a bigger deal of this proposal, putting on that bloody tight purple shirt and trying (but failing) to make risotto. He'd almost cleared the kitchen table of experiments, except for an eye, and put a red candle in the centre. There were rather impressive folded napkins shaped like swans on the table, next to plates of ruddy risotto. After smiling down a plate of the main, Sherlock proposed.  
Unlike before, he had a genuine smile on his face. In that moment, I realised how much I loved that man. He asked very simply. “John, you make my thoughts and feelings make sense. I cannot stand them sometimes, but your love has helped me. Saved me.”  
“Yes, Sherlock.” And he met my lips before we went to bed, leaving the candle burning on the table.

|||||

 

We are getting married tomorrow, 8 years to the date of meeting. We'd prepared everything months ago. It turns out Sherlock had a lot more money than expected, he certainly didn't need a flat mate. The general theme of the wedding was blue, a soft duck egg colour. The bridesmaids (Molly, Janine and April, a girl from the surgery whom had come for tea many times) wore soft pretty dresses that came slightly below the knee with pearls boardering the sleeveless dresses.  
Sherlock and I are wearing matching tuxedos, with light blue ties and white roses in our breast pockets. Mike is to be the ring bearer and Greg the best man. It only seems fair for Mike to be the ring bearer; have brought us together after all.  
“John,” Sherlock calls from the living room. “Please come here.” Please. He started to say please. I pad into the living room, smiling at my fiancé who is draped across his seat, feet dangling over the arm.  
“John,” he says again. “Are you scared?” I furrow my brow.  
“No,” I say, taking my seat. “Nervous. But not scared.” Sherlock nods and steeples his fingers, resting them under his chin.  
“Sherlock are you scared?” He nods a little, not meeting my eyes. For a moment, the wall that Sherlock has built up disappears. I see his excitement, his happiness, his fear. Silently, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and he moves to accommodate the extra body on the seat. There we stay until we fall asleep, together. 

The next morning, I wake earlier, moving myself slowly from under Sherlock. Brush my teeth, have some tea, shower. I look into the mirror, scanning my face over and over. I look older than Sherlock, more worn, battle scars on my brain. My scars are fading now, PTSD less frequent, but they are still there. Memories of hiding affections for men, so many incredibly attractive men. So many dead men. So so many. I splash my face with water. Not today, John, not today. I am marrying Sherlock. I suddenly remember Mary. The once stinging pain has gone, now numb. She would be pleased. The bright bright women knew this would happen. Save him. Save John Watson. I think Sherlock has done just that.  
I dress into my pink checked shirt, jeans and white cable jumper and wake Sherlock to a breakfast of tea and toast. He has slept the whole night through. Before I would sleep with Sherlock, he would wake at stupid o’clock, shooting walls or playing the violin. Now he sleeps heavily. I watch him sighing in his sleep, face slack and bloody beautiful.  
“Sherlock.” I set the breakfast down on the table and shake him. He stretched and yawns.  
“Morning John” is what I think he said, slurring. I smile and hand him tea. He drinks it in silence and the room feels warm and close, as if only us exist. This is the universe. Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock. After he sets down the cup, he stands and wraps his arms around me. I melt into him.  
“I love you.”  
“And I feel the very same, John.” 

||||||

The service is at 1 o’clock. Prior to this, Sherlock and I drive to the hotel where the reception will be. I get changed in one room and Sherlock the next. Lestrade is helping me get changed. Molly is helping Sherlock. I blush a little as Greg compliments my outfit. I can't look him in the eye after the stag night.

Sherlock went to a gay bar with some friends from Uni. He said ‘friends’ but I'm not entirely sure he knew them. Perhaps they were part of the homeless network? Greg, Mike and I went to a club near to 221b. The gay scene is something I myself haven't investigated and I don't intend to.  
The music was loud and bassy and made my blood pump fast round my head. There were many women not wearing very much and the lights low and UV. If that didn't make me uncomfortable enough, the amount of women approaching me made me feel worse.  
“Sorry, I'm getting married in the morning.” I practically yelled.  
“Oh, really.” The woman sat on my lap, her legs hooking round my waist. “Who's the lucky lady?” She leant forward, her breasts practically popping out of her latex tube top.  
“Man. He's an anal assassin.” Slurred Greg. I almost cried.  
By half past ten, I staggered to the toilet and phoned Sherlock. We'd been there bearly two hours but Greg was smashed and I was tired. God know where Mike was. After two rings, he picked up.  
“John?”  
“Sherlock.” I wish I didn't want to hear his voice after five minutes of being away. “Are you ok?”  
“No.” He replied. “There are many men in thongs dancing in a rather distasteful way against each other. Several times I have been called “pretty boy” or “clever boy” by people who aren't you and the best conversation I've had was with a drunk lesbian called Elle who is a butcher. She's told me 25 different ways to cut a cow.”  
“Well your night is going better than mine.” I replied. “Greg...”  
“Greg?”  
“Lestrade,” I continued “is already hammered. Mike is missing and a stripper tried to give me a lap dance.” At that moment, Lestrade came barrelling in. He practically fell through the door and  
Into the laminated floor. For a moment, he flailed on the ground, unable to stand.  
“JOHN” he practically screamed “hide me!1!1” It came to light that he had in fact committed a crime. He had not payed for several drinks. In total, they had come to a spine-tingling cost of £463 And 25 pence. The police were called on the inspector.  
“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” An officer said. Due to the circumstances of DI Lestrade’s employment and the bizarre situation; all charges were dropped and cost covered by a rather pitiful officer. After this event, I called a cab and dragged Greg home. The next morning, I got a text reading ‘sorry I ruined your stag night.

Neither Sherlock nor I had thought about the ceremony. Who should walk down the aisle? We decided that I should, however now I thoroughly regret the decision. Standing maybe 10 meters away, in front of the closed doors, is Sherlock. I resist running. They open and I almost keel over. My knees buckle but someone pushes me up. Come on John.  
I step, one, two, down the aisle, ignoring the admiring glances from guests. In the corner of my eye, I see Molly weeping. Ignore them. I keep my eyes on Sherlock, blocking out the other people. Ignoring them in case I vomit or collapse or both. He turns, eyes piercing but somehow soft. He pursues his lips so not to smile.  
“You can smile Sherlock, it’s your wedding.” He does. It’s scary. He looks at me, searching my eyes and I do my very best to do a genuine smile. A real, heartfelt one. He smiles back and I resist the temptation to throw my hands around his neck.  
The formalities begin, the talk of God and Christ and blessings being thrown upon our marriage. The Priest in charge of the ceremony asks if anyone thinks we cannot be married. No one says anything and Molly inhales a ragged breath.  
There is a pause. I watch over the smiling faces of the people in the pews. The Holmes’ smiling up (even Mycroft) from the front. Mrs Hudson holding onto Molly’s hand, who is crying into a tissue. Greg is leaning, grimacing at Mrs Hudson’s rather large lemon-yellow hat. Mike is sat next to Mycroft, who looks severely uncomfortable. I watch over these faces of people who have become part of my life. Even Rosie is silent, sleeping quietly next to Harry. 

“John.” Begins Sherlock. His eyes are bright and wide. What is he doing. “I previously believed that I was numb to all human kindness and any yearning for love and protection. I fooled myself to believe that people who fell into the jaws of affection were obsolete. Were stupid. Now, John I understand.” He lifts his hand, eyes flicking across the palm before putting it by his side. “The point I’m trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-around obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending in the face of the unhappy. So, if I didn’t believe in love and pure affection, it was because I didn’t understand I had the ability to feel. I didn’t feel you had deep affections for me John. I didn’t expect to be the best friend, then boyfriend, then fiancé and now significant other of another being. Certainly not the husband to the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.” He lifts his other hand, reading something off the palm. “John, I am a ridiculous man. Redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your love. I am sorry for any pain I have ever put you through, but this is a vow I intend to keep. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss, but I promise you that I will never let you down, not again, after everything you have done for me. I have a life time to prove this to you.” 

There are sniffles from the pews, and I can feel myself tearing up. I look at that man, who looks so young and ragged. His eyes meeting mine, a deeper love that I have ever felt. I go to step forwards, when it happens. 

There is a terrifying bang. A scream from the pews. A window smashes and glass is spewed outwards. I freeze, the sudden shot bringing waves of trauma. People shouting. Clamouring. Shouting. Someone drops down next to me. Suddenly, everything replays and I am on my knees.  
“Sherlock?” I stammer, forgetting any training I’d ever had. “Sherlock!” I repeat, more desperate. He is slumped forward, head lolling. Someone is shouting my name.  
I put his feet out and tell someone to elevate them, stop the bleeding, apply pressure.  
“Sherlock, where is it?” I ask, but then I see the blood leaking from his abdomen. Sherlock has tears rolling down his face, shaking and gasping. Panicking.  
"John..." Sherlock groans. It rips straight through me, taking everything not to break down.  
"Yes Sherlock, I'm here."  
"John..." Sherlock spasms in pain, groaning as I pressed harder into the wound. He gasps several times, choking and breathing shallowly, heart racing. I press hard. Where’s the ambulance?  
“John.”  
“Yes Sherlock.”  
“I love you.”  
“I love you too.” I ball my fist and try not to break down. This was meant to be the start of something new and beautiful.  
“John.”  
“Yes?”  
“I’m going to die.” He gasped and stutters, voice becoming higher in pitch. Mary. She died like this.  
“No you won’t. You can’t.” Tears squeeze from under my eyelids. “I won’t let you.”  
“John…”  
“No. Who will I have.” I take his hand. No one else exists. I am pulled closer into his orbit. He shakes, racked with pain. Face ashen. Hands clammy. I rest my forehead against his. “Who?” Sherlock’s breathing becomes jagged, his face wet with tears. “Who?” His grip tightens.  
“Thank you, John” I push my head into his. “For you.” Something happens. Something breaks. I am undone again and again and again. Waves of pain and supressed memories and flashbacks gulping everything. I stay attached to this man. Frozen. In refusal. Another one. How many more will have to die?

I hate the universe and everyone in it. I hate my life and the fact I am living it. I should have thrown myself into some river or offed myself. I wish I am dead. It would be a lot less painful then what I’m feeling now.  
“John.” “John have some tea.” “John, let go.” “Excuse me sir, we need to come through.” “John, come here.” “I’m sorry.” 

I realised that they weren’t sorry. They will mourn. They will cry. But they will keep functioning. Keep moving. Keep living. My eyes scan Sherlock’s blood-soaked shirt, his hand still curved around mine. I cannot live this way. This is the universe. No John without Sherlock. No Sherlock without John. I realise I’d rather be dead.


End file.
